Chapter Nine
The night sky stretched out over the water, an endless expanse of black dotted with a sliver of moon. Tourists would’ve been snapping photos for Instagram, but Jack took another swig of beer, hoping it would shut up his brain for five seconds.
After Cora left, he’d scrubbed the kitchen until it gleamed, like he could scrub away the part where he’d actually thought he was getting through to her.
He’d told her stories about Lolly, walked her through the recipes, let her peek behind the curtain a little.
And she’d laughed and played along. He’d taken it as a sign they were finally on the same page.
Turns out, she’d just been softening him up before asking for his help to shut it all down.
Stupid.
She wasn’t staying. She wasn’t invested. She just wanted his help to wrap things up in a tidy bow before she bolted back to her real life.
And like an idiot, he’d smiled and cooked and let himself forget.
He shifted on the weathered planks of the dock, half hoping they’d finally give way and dump him in the water. At least then he could stop feeling like a fool for thinking about her freckles and the way she’d laughed when she’d talked about setting her kitchen on fire making toast.
“Real smart, Harlow,” he muttered, taking another pull of his drink. “Get suckered in by the woman who’s about to destroy the only thing in this town that makes sense.” He groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. This was getting him nowhere fast.
The thing was, he knew Cora had cared about Lolly. That much was obvious from the way her voice softened whenever she talked about her grandmother, the wistful look in her eyes when she glanced around the café. So why was she so set on selling?
A memory surfaced, unbidden. Lolly, doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Jack,” she’d wheezed between giggles, “you should’ve seen it.
Cora, bless her heart, decided she was going to make me a birthday cake.
Unsupervised. She somehow managed to mistake salt for sugar and baking soda for flour.
It was like biting into the Dead Sea. But you know what?
She made me eat a whole slice, watching me with those big eyes.
Thought I’d die, but I choked it down. Because that girl?
She’s got more heart than talent, and sometimes that’s what the world needs. ”
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, but it faded as the rumble of an engine cut through the quiet.
He didn’t need to look up to know it was a Worthington car purring by, heading to the far end of the island where regular folks, especially Harlows, didn’t dare to tread.
Probably Nathaniel, out for an evening drive in whatever overpriced midlife crisis he was currently showing off.
His grip tightened around the bottle. The Worthingtons dominated this town, and for them, it was never about land or money.
It was about power. And the idea of Cora getting wrapped up in that mess, of her handing over Lolly’s café to Nathaniel Worthington, made his blood boil.
Then again, the Worthingtons viewed his family as the town villains, and they’d done plenty to earn that reputation.
His grandfather had straight-up killed Tobias Worthington, Nathaniel’s great-uncle, back in the day.
That started the feud. Add in the fact that Jack’s dad spent more time in the county jail than out of it, and it was no wonder folks locked their doors when the Harlows walked by.
That’s why he’d left Sunrise to open his restaurant, because the town never let him forget who he was. “There goes Jack Harlow,” they’d whisper. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?”
His dad had never shared much about what went down between Gramps and Tobias Worthington.
All Jack knew was that it supposedly started over a woman.
Knowing the Harlow men’s knack for charming the ladies—and their spectacular talent for screwing it up—that could mean just about anything.
Rumors flew all over town for years. Everything from a poker game gone wrong to Gramps being a bootlegger.
Jack’s favorite was the one involving a pig named Henrietta and an out-of-control bonfire on the mayor’s front lawn.
The truth? He didn’t know. In Sunrise, history shifted with the tides, different with every retelling. But one thing was certain: whatever went down between Gramps and Worthington had sparked a feud that made the Hatfields and McCoys look like kids arguing over marbles.
And now here he was, about to throw himself into the same old battle, this time over a café.
Lolly would’ve gotten a kick out of that.
Him, the last Harlow, squaring off with a Worthington over her beloved restaurant.
But to him, this wasn’t about an old feud.
The café was more than a business. It was a lifeline, the place where he’d found his footing again.
And now Cora was ready to hand it over to the highest bidder.
What made it worse was that the highest bidder in Sunrise would always be Nathaniel freaking Worthington.
“Over my dead body,” he muttered, draining the last of his beer. He stood up, tossing the empty bottle into the recycling bin as he headed back to the house. Time to come up with a plan. One that ended with Worthington getting exactly what he deserved.
As he reached for another beer, because that kind of scheming required fuel, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Aggie.
Whatever you’re planning, count me in. P.S. Your dock really is a death trap. I’ve got a guy who can fix that.
He stared at the screen, shaking his head. How did she always—You know what? He didn’t even want to know. He texted back:
My dock is fine. But if you’ve got any dirt on the Worthingtons, now’s the time to spill.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Oh, honey, I’ve got a whole compost heap. Come by the café tomorrow morning. Bring breakfast.
Jack kicked open The Salty Spoon’s door, juggling a basket of muffins and whatever was left of his dignity.
As expected, the trio was already inside.
The place had been officially closed for months, but that minor detail had never stopped Aggie, Bea, and Winston from treating it like their personal clubhouse.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” Aggie called from her perch at the counter. “If it isn’t Sunrise’s most eligible felon.”
“Alleged felon,” he corrected, dropping the basket on the counter with a thud that sent the napkin holder skittering. “I’ll have you know I’ve been a model citizen for at least . . .” He checked his watch. “Twelve hours now.”
Aggie snorted into her coffee. “Alert the media. Jack Harlow made it through the night without a mug shot.”
He flipped open the basket’s cloth cover, releasing a puff of blueberry-scented steam that made Aggie lean in.
“Keep it up, and I’ll find a way to make these muffins lethal.
” He nodded toward Winston, who was chewing on the end of a pen as he studied the crossword puzzle.
“Don’t worry, Winston, I’ll give the Gazette the exclusive. ”
Winston nodded, as if it were a legitimate business proposition. “I’d appreciate that, young man. It used to be a lot easier to get a good story. I remember once during the Ford administration, I—”
Bea hip-checked him out of the way to peer into the basket. “Good heavens, Jack. These look like—”
“Lolly’s recipe,” he finished softly.
The café went quiet, Lolly’s name hanging in the air like the comforting scent of those muffins. He could almost see her bustling behind the counter, flour smudged on her cheek, that mischievous twinkle in her eye.
Jack grabbed a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee strong enough to strip paint. He turned to the trio. “What, no small talk? No, How’s the weather, Jack? Or, Torched any buildings lately, Jack?”
“Now, now,” Bea said, stacking two muffins on a napkin. “We all know you Harlows save your felonies for special occasions.”
“Like Tuesdays,” Aggie added without missing a beat.
He raised his mug in a mock toast. “And federal holidays. Can’t forget those.”
Winston cleared his throat, thankfully steering the conversation back on track. He slid his glasses on with the seriousness of a man about to brief the Pentagon. “Right, then. If we can focus, please. We’re here to discuss the Worthington situation.”
“Who wants to go first?” Aggie asked.
Jack leaned against the counter. “Ladies first. Age before beauty and all that.”
Aggie’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Harlow. I may be old, but I can still kick your behind six ways to Sunday.”
“Only six? You’re slipping.”
Bea jumped in before Aggie could fire back. “My niece’s husband’s cousin heard that the youngest Worthington boy, you know, the one with the unfortunate nose . . .”
“Reginald,” Winston supplied, like he was a walking encyclopedia of unfortunate noses.
“Right. Well, he’s been running an underground ferret-racing ring out of his mother’s garden shed.”
Jack blinked. “I’m sorry, did you say ferret racing?”
Bea nodded solemnly. “Oh, yes. They wear little jockey outfits and everything.”
He tried to picture it and immediately wished he hadn’t. “Okay, that’s disturbing. But unless we’re planning to blackmail Nathaniel by exposing his brother’s rodent fetish, I’m not sure how that helps.”
“It doesn’t help directly,” Winston mused, “but it speaks to certain eccentricities in the family. Things we might exploit.”
Aggie pursed her lips. “My turn. You’ll never guess what I dug up about Nathaniel’s stepsister, Cordelia.”
They all leaned in. If there was one thing Aggie excelled at, it was uncovering dirt that would make a saint sweat.
“Turns out,” Aggie stage-whispered, “she’s been taking pole-dancing classes in Littleton. Under an alias.”